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10 December, 2003

Last night included the ordeal of sitting next to the ultimate horror expat couple, so brilliantly encapsulated in the "Jumeirah Jane" poetry book as Umm Seqeim Sarah-&-Tony. Generally from the northern climes of Britain, him overpaid as a mid-manager in some port or construction type affair, her possibly a low-level marketing person or receptionist in a company racist enough to desire a flashy pale-face over a cheaper and harder-working subcon.

This couple was painfully thick, painfully racist, and painfully boring. The dinner table was regaled with every bad expat legend imaginable. If nothing else, we are now more au-fait with the layout and (lack of) emergency exits at Zinc nightclub than its architects. And forewarned about the alarmingly high frequency of sexual attacks.

"This Emirates air hostess was nearly abducted outside her building at eight in the morning, they tried to get her into a car."

"Oh. When was this?"

"About two years ago."

The highlight, as usual, was the 11th of September Conspiracies.

"Those men that flew the planes, they came to Dubai first Holiday Inn."

The obvious remark was made that if one was enjoying the last two weeks of ones life, surely the beachside Burj or Royal Madge would be the hotel of choice, not the dreary Holiday Inn of urban Karama. Sarah'n'Tone failed to comprehend.